The States

migraine (behind my face and above my throat)

1

Michael's having a hard time mustering guilt for snapping at Minnie and Tyler right now, even though he'll feel terrible for it later.

They were just so loud.

Michael opens his eyes at the sound of his bedroom door opening, only to hiss and close them as he remembers that he hadn't drawn the curtains before curling up in bed after breakfast and hadn't had the energy to get up and do it later.

There's a soft rustling he recognizes as the curtains being closed, and then the bed dips lightly as someone sits next to his shins.

"Tyler said you yelled at him and Mindy."

Michael groans slightly. "Not in the mood for a lecture, 'Delia."

Cordelia sighs. "I know. How bad is it?"

"Seven."

Cordelia's silent for a moment. "Stay or go?"

"...You can stay."

He doesn't really like being alone when he has a migraine. Maybe it makes him weak, but he's hurting and he feels helpless and as much as they fight, he knows Cordelia won't let anything bad happen.

Cordelia hums softly, climbing over his legs and settling against the headboard so that her thigh presses against his shoulders reassuringly. She cards her fingers through his hair, rubbing gentle circles against his scalp.

He wakes up in the morning to find Cordelia's head tipped back against the headboard and her hand on his head, and she gives him hell for a week after for the way he snores and the crick in her neck.

2

Michael pulls at his bow tie, hoping to ease the suffocating feeling.

While the formal parties at the white house have never been fun, usually they're less miserable than this.

Usually, Michael can at least fake a smile and be charming for a handful of hours, and afterward snatch a bottle of wine and find either Riley or Cass to share it with while complaining about rich people, politicians, or worse: rich politicians. Sometimes, depending on the last fight they had, he can even rope Cordelia into it, and she can complain about the men who flirt with her or the old women who talk up their sons and/or grandsons.

Tonight, he can't be bothered to paste even a thin veneer of charm over his bad mood. Not with the feeling of his dress shirt sticking to his spine with sweat, the pressure behind his eyes, the way the light and noise chafe his senses.

Michael flinches when Sera appears at his side to press something cold into his palm.

"It's the key to my office. You know where it is." She explains quietly.

She's gone before Michael remembers to say thank you.

-----------

He's buried under Sera's lavender throw blanket with his face pressed into the couch cushions, repressing the urge to throw up when Cordelia finds him.

Michael turns his head enough to watch her set a glass of water down on the table and pick up the suit jacket he'd shed as soon as he was away from prying eyes and the bow tie that had been choking him all night, draping them neatly over the back of the couch.

Cordelia settles next to him, and while he normally accepts her fussing without complaint, tonight he recoils as soon as she gets close. The sudden movement jars his stomach.

No, no, no, if I throw up in her office Sera will murder me, Michael thinks as he scrambles off the couch to grab for the wastebasket.

Cordelia does it for him, pressing it into his hands just in time.